The Devil Made Me Do It
by FireflyFanatic3x
Summary: Abaddon is up to something, and Sam, Dean and Cas need to find out what before it's too late. But when 7 bodies turn up in Lebanon, Kansas, the BAU team is called in to investigate two of America's most evasive and dangerous killers. They will not relent until the Winchesters are in custody. But how do you profile a hunter? And how do you save the world from inside a jail cell?
1. Chapter 1

**This is a crossover between Criminal Minds and Supernatural. You can still appreciate the story if you have only watched one of the shows, with a very limited or basic understanding of the other.**

**The story is set post-season 8 for Supernatural, and season 5 for Criminal Minds (**_**or any season where the cast is Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, Reid, Prentiss, JJ, Garcia**_**)**

**Words: 3300**

**Warning: Some explicit language.**

**A/N at the bottom.**

-o-

"_Let us go forth with fear and courage and rage to save the world." - Grace Paley_

-o-

CHAPTER 1

A deep red silk dress, cut in a 50s style; probably hand-made, definitely very expensive. It stood out against the dullness of the room, lit only by the candles placed in a neat circle on the floor. The tall, somewhat terrifying woman stood over a chair placed in the centre of the room, where a well-built man with dark skin and even darker eyes sat, staring up at her.

"Please!" he begged. Blood sprayed from his lips as they pressed together and he frantically formed the words, "I told you, Crowley gave me information! Please… I can find it for you, just… don't kill me." he pleaded.

She looked down at him; the lips, painted bright red, spreading slowly across her face to form a smile. "Sweetheart you're a terrible liar."

Then she reached out, still smirking down at him, and touched his face. Though her touch was light, almost _gentle_, the moment her fingers reached his cheek, the man began to writhe in pain. The burning light shining out through every opening in his body lasted but a moment, then just as suddenly as it had begun, it was over.

Her lieutenant – a stocky woman who stood, dressed in a tailored suit with her hands behind her back, seemed totally unphased by what had just happened. But she grimaced for a second as the light from the candles illuminated the large, thick red wound that lined the taller woman's neck, stitched together with cotton.

Composing herself, the lieutenant asked, "Is he the last of Crowley's deuces?"

The woman smiled as she took a worn leather jacket from her lieutenant's arms and threw it over her shoulder. "I doubt that. But we're sending a message – anyone who served that worm will not be spared. All that's left now are foot soldiers who'll be loyal to whoever's running the show. Which, right now… is _me_."

"Shall I leave the body here?"

Abaddon grinned. "Oh no. Bring him with us! We're going to need him for our next project!"

And then she was gone.

_10 weeks later:_

"It's one of the most interesting mathematical phenomenon found in nature!" Reid said, his eyes lighting up as he continued to ramble, while Prentiss, JJ, and Morgan exchanged knowing smiles. "The Fibonacci sequence can be found in every part of nature; from the number of petals on flowers and the spiral pattern you find on snail shells, to even the shape of the human face; everything keeps to the sequence. In fact, it's been theorised by many mathematicians that what we find aesthetically pleasing or physically attractive in another person's face is actually just how close they are to the Golden Ratio, a derivative of the sequence. The closer one is to the Golden Ratio, the more beautiful they're considered to be." He finished, smiling as he nodded.

"I don't know. '_Beauty is in the eye of the beholder_' and all that." JJ commented.

"True, but there are some people that everyone can agree are pretty, right? I mean, Jude Law!" Prentiss replied, turning to look at her.

"Mm-hm, and George Clooney!" She added.

"Henry Cavill!" Garcia interjected excitedly.

"Which one's that?"

"Clark Kent in the new Superman movie!" Prentiss smiled.

"Oh! Yeah, mmmm-hm!" JJ mused. "That's one face I could stare at all day!"

"Hey, hey! What about me?" Morgan suddenly interjected, holding out his hands and wearing an expression of mock upset. "I'm aesthetically pleasing!"

"Meh," Emily joked, shrugging, "I think that one's up to interpretation."

Morgan's eyebrows shot up and they erupted in laughter.

"Don't worry hotshot, you've always got my gaze!" Garcia said, grinning as she reached out and punched Morgan's arm playfully.

JJ and Prentiss smiled at one another and the company continued their conversation until Hotch approached with a stern face. All fell silent.

They were all pretty sure by this point that Hotch's face was permanently set in a sombre expression, but today there was something different; he didn't just look serious. He looked troubled.

"In the briefing room, now, we've got a case." He said as he approached them, then turned off and walked up to Strauss' office.

The four profilers exchanged puzzled, troubled looks. As Prentiss raised her eyebrow at JJ, she just shrugged and replied, "Nothing's come across my desk."

Eventually, one by one, all the BAU's elite team of profilers filtered into the room upstairs. Garcia, their technical analyst shuffled in behind everyone else with a worried but curious expression.

"Lebanon, Kansas," Hotch said as they all filtered in and sat down. "Seven bodies turned up in the woods, 5 of them women, all of them were fully clothed and had been stabbed in the torso."

"A mass killing." Morgan mused, then looked at the pictures on the screen. "So what's special about these murders?"

"There have been several other disappearances and murders across the area, previously thought to be unrelated. But when the Sheriff's office pulled security camera footage from the nearest building, they found these," Hotch replied, clicking a button on the remote. The image of those bodies in the woods, lying strewn across the ground, disappeared and the pictures that replaced it were of security camera footage, showing two Caucasian men walking towards the woods. The taller of the two wielded a knife, and the shorter one held a gun at his side.

Hotch looked up at the team and spoke. "Sam and Dean Winchester."

"Why do those names sound familiar?" Pretniss asked, squinting at the screen, trying to make some sense of who they were to her.

"They were on the top of F.B.I's most wanted list for the grand total of one week, about a year ago," Reid said, looking around, "The brothers went on a killing spree, crossing several states in western America, usually going into largely crowded areas like diners or banks and shooting everyone in sight. They made sure every mass murder was videoed, if not by a security camera, then by some hand-held device on scene. But they were already being pursued by the FBI and local police in many towns long before the spree killings for various murders and other crimes such as grave desecrations."

"So why the short stay on the Most Wanted list? Were they caught?" Rossi inquired.

"No," Hotch shook his head, clicking another button on the remote as two death certificates appeared. "They died – supposedly. Like Reid said, they've been wanted for several years now by multiple authorities, and given the ferocity of their lastest killing spree, the Beuro's not taking any chances. Wheels up in 30."

As the team began to file out, Hotch added, in a lower tone, "Garcia, I want you to come with us."

She turned and looked up at him. "Sir?"

"They're having some technical trouble with the footage, and I need it analysed. Give me everything you can. Kevin can take point from here if you need any assistance."

She nodded in reply, then watched as he turned and left the room.

As Hotch reached the door he looked back. "Garcia?" She was staring at the board, seemingly transfixed by the new photos of Sam and Dean that had come up on the screen. When he called her name a second time, she suddenly turned to face him, as though pulling herself out of her own little world. "Come on. You need a ready bag. And don't be late!"

Meanwhile, already in Lebanon, Sam Winchester sat at the planning table in the Men of Letter's bunker. He, his brother and Castiel had just returned from a run-in with some demons on a case. There had been an alarming number of murders just out of town, and several strange occurrences usually affiliated with large-scale demon activity. Unfortunately, their investigations had led them off a main road outside an office building and into the adjacent woods. Once there, they'd happened upon a group of a dozen or so demons, performing some kind of ritual.

"Ouch!" Castiel's voice sounded from the other side of the room, where Dean was standing over him, patching up a flesh-wound on his arm. "That hurt, Dean!"

"Yeah, well suck it up! Cuts hurt, and you're probably gonna have a lot of them from now on, Cas. Get used to it and stop being such a sissy!" Then Dean sighed, regretting the words as soon as he'd finished saying them. Castiel looked away as his face fell. "I know you're not used to this, but that's why I told you to stay in the bunker!" he insisted.

"What's the use of – ow!" he suddenly exclaimed as Dean threaded a stitch through the deep cut. "What's the use of being here if I can't _do_ anything, Dean? I'm useless as an Angel, now… I can't even be a decent human."

"Hey," Dean said, looking down at him with more sympathy and less attitude, "You're doing fine. You've only been at this for a couple of months. Most people your age sleep for 20 hours a day, shit themselves and cry when they're awake cos they can't talk. You're doing pretty well, considering." he joked.

As he finished the bandage, wrapping it tightly over Cas' forearm, the blue-eyed man looked up at Dean and mumbled a thank you.

Nodding it off, Dean sauntered over to the table and sat himself down opposite Sam. "The real question is – what the hell are these demons doing here? There's been five murders in the past two weeks! What are they after?"

"I don't know, Dean. I took some pictures of what they had at that ritual thing in the woods, but I don't think it's got anything to do with these murders. There's blood in it, but as far as I can tell, no human parts; just… feathers, some kind of dust, a translucent liquid, and animal bones." Sam replied.

The older of the two brothers sighed heavily as he rubbed his eyes. "Why so many though? They don't usually work in teams unless they're on some special mission. And we know Crowley isn't giving those out anymore because he's… _indisposed_. So why the party?"

"I don't think they were celebrating, Dean." Cas interjected, but looked down at the table when Dean rolled his eyes.

"We should interview some of the victim's families tomorrow," Sam suggested. Dean nodded his head and Cas looked from one Winchester to the other. Interrogation… he could do that. Sort of.

They arrived at the houses shortly after breakfast and the short drive to the wife of the first victim, Marie Donnavon was spent mostly discussing the case and getting nowhere in particular. The door opened almost instantly after Sam had pressed the doorbell, and a petite blonde woman with delicate features appeared behind it, looking up at them.

"Hi, I'm Agent Smith, this is my partner, Agent Wilcox." Dean said, smiling warmly at her.

"We're with the FBI!" Cas chimed.

"He's our er… trainee." Dean added, flashing another reassuring smile.

Once invited inside, they asked their questions – was there anything strange about him before he died? Were their any changes in behaviour? Did she happen to smell sulphur or feel any cold spots in the house in the past month or so? - the usual.

Though she claimed everything was fine, they could tell there was something wrong. Marie was sitting crouched over with her arms folded in, making herself look even smaller than she was. She was practically hugging herself, constantly looking to the door as though reassuring herself there was a way out. And even though they were talking about her husband of five years, who died not two weeks ago, there wasn't even a single tear forming in her eyes.

"Marie?" Sam tried, leaning forward as he gazed at her caringly, "I know there was something wrong. And I know in a close-knit community like this it's hard to admit problems to outsiders, but please believe me when I say we're just trying to do the right thing here and figure this out."

She sighed, taking a deep breath. Then she spoke; a voice that fitted her physique perfectly – soft and small. "Phil wasn't Phil anymore. And I don't mean he changed like people sometimes change when they go through bad things or when they get older. I mean he _wasn't Phil_. I know that sounds crazy, but I know my husband. For about five weeks before he died, life with him was hell. He just woke up one morning and he was somebody else, somebody… _evil_."

"Evil's a pretty strong word, Ms Donnavon." Dean commented.

Marie nodded slowly. "Phil was a gentle man. He was a postman for pete's sake! But one morning, a switch flipped and he didn't go to work, he was missing for almost two weeks, and when he returned and I confronted him, he…" when her sentence hung in the air, unfinished, Sam and Dean looked at her, edging her to go on. Taking a deep breath, she continued, "He threw me across the room."

"Your husband was physically abusive to you?" Cas asked.

"No," she replied, turning to look at him, "I don't mean he started hitting me – he literally _threw_ me across the room. He just slapped me and I flew across the room and landed by that cabinet there." she finished, pointing to a large, ornate cabinet situated several metres away.

Nodding understandingly, Dean and Sam exchanged knowing glances.

"Well, I'm very sorry for your loss, Ms Donnavon." Sam said suddenly, as the company rose. Handing her a card, he added, "If you have anything else you remember, don't hesitate to call us. We'll show ourselves out."

The small lady watched from the comfort of her sofa as the three tall agents left her house and heard the door slam behind them. Once outside, Castiel turned to the brothers. "That would be an extraordinary display of strength for any human." he said simply.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "Most likely possessed. So – what? The people who died are _demons_?"

Sam shrugged as they got into the car. "I don't know, it looks like it. We'll have to ask the other victim's families to make sure."

"Well, lets leave them to it. They can hash it out themselves – I'm not gonna stop them from killing each other!"

"There are other lives at risk here, Dean," Sam reminded him as they began towards the next house, a couple of miles West. "When a demon dies, so does the person they're possessing."

"You'd rather we let the demons live?"

Sam sighed. "I'd rather nobody dies, Dean. We need to find out _why _they're killing them; why the demons are possessing anyone in the first place."

Dean rolled his eyes and turned away, but begrudgingly, he knew Sam was right.

The journey back to the Batcave was spent in a somewhat awkward silence. It wasn't until they drove up and over the grassy hill that they were all pulled from their thoughts to rapt attention as Dean slammed the breaks on. As though from nowhere, a hellish sight had appeared in the road ahead, now just a few feet away from the hood of the Impala. The party of three all stared for a moment, not fully able to comprehend the sight of her.

Abaddon was standing in the road, just a few feet away from them in a new deep red dress and that old leather jacket, smirking at them with her arms folded.

"Well, boys!" she exclaimed as they all stepped out of the car. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise!"

Dean swallowed, taking a deep breath as he formulated a response. Abaddon was a pain in the ass, but she was also a lot more. She was one of the most powerful demons they'd met in a long time – a match for Alasteir or Azazel anyday. Worse still, she was learning fast and soon the Winchesters would have trouble keeping up.

"Castiel!" she exclaimed upon noticing him as he appeared from behind Sam. "How quaint!"

"Abaddon." he replied gruffly, staring at her.

"How's Heaven?" she smirked, well aware it had been months since he'd touched Heaven's walls or walked that hallowed ground.

"How're the stitches?" Dean spat.

"Bloody." she replied instantly, "Just like Heaven! Although – you haven't been there in a while, have you?" she added, turning to eye the angel-no-more.

"What do you want?" Sam asked haughtily, staring her down with a bold defiance.

She turned her head to match his gaze. "I want you to stay out of my way." When the three hunters exchanged quiet looks, she continued, "I don't like you. You're like those annoying little insects you have – oh what do you call them? _Wasps. _You're nothing but a pain in my neck… _literally_."

Dean couldn't help but smirk at the remark as he looked at the permanent patch-work etched along her neckline.

"But," she added, "I don't mind having you around. Because do you know what wasps do? They eat other annoying little insects. And as long as you stay out of my way, I'm _happy_ for you to keep swatting flies. You're pretty good at it actually; a lot better than your grandaddy!" the boys flinched at the mention of Henry, both stiffening as Sam's fist began to curl into a ball. She relished their reaction. "So now that I'm in charge, I'm here to tell you that you can carry on – I'll stay out of your way. As long as you stay out of mine."

"Oh, so you're queen bitch now?" Dean asked, "Thought running hell was Crowley's job?"

This time it was their turn to relish the moment as she grimaced; her face contorting in anger. "_That little worm?_" she hissed. Then, a mirthless laugh left her lips as she continued, "No, you put him out of business – thanks for that! Mommy's home now and things are going to change a little. I've started already, as I'm sure you've noticed!"

"So it's you?" Sam asked, "All these murders, the demons – you're killing them off?"

"I was swatting flies." she answered, blinking slowly, savouring the memories of all those squealing pigs, begging for mercy. "Now Hell belongs to me, and those flies still longing for their old '_King_' don't have any place in my world."

"So why all the hocus pocus in the woods?" Dean played with his gun as he spoke, wrapping his fingers around the handle. Not that it would do much good – it was more of an instinctual reaction. He was looking forward to the moment when he'd get to shoot her in the face with the colt.

"Oh I'm done with Crowley's lot – those flies have been squashed. No, I'm working on a new project now. But this town is too small for the both of us, boys – you've been stepping on my toes! After your little tussle in the woods I had to start all over again!"

"What a shame!" Dean remarked, flashing her a sarcastic smile.

Unphased by his comment, she continued, considerably less humourous all of a sudden. "You stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours. But if I find you sniffing around my girls again… well I'm sure you won't be missed when your entrails line the way to Hell." she finished. There was a moment of silence as the Winchesters and Cas exchanged looks, before she suddenly burst, "Well, it's been _lovely_ catching up! Au revoir!"

A momentary pause, then, as soon as she was gone, Dean spoke. "Well – I think I liked her better without a head!" he exclaimed. "Queen Bitch is definitely up to something."

Sam nodded in agreement. "Whatever it is, it can't be good."

Cas frowned for a moment, then inquired, "Why would she be trying to do good, Sam? She's a demon."

Dean rolled his eyes again. Sam laughed. Cas stood their looking confused. Just like old times.

**A/N → I really hope you like this story – I've worked hard on it. I'm hoping to update every 1-2 weeks but I would really appreciate a beta-reader (or more than one!), because I am desperate to get this story right. I want to amaze you.**

**So please leave a review, tell me what you thought – I'm very interested in how you all take this story and what you think of how it develops.**

**Thank you so much for reading this far! ;)**


	2. Chapter 2

**The next chapter is up! The BAU team arrive in Lebanon and begin to set up their investigation, meanwhile the hunters continue an investigation of their own...**

**Words: 2900**

**Warning: Some language.**

**A/N at the bottom.**

CHAPTER 2

The BAU team arrived with very little fanfare, and as they filed into the station one by one through the security gate, Hotch began speaking with the Deputy. They set up in the police station's conference room, and after a short briefing, set about doing their own tasks. As JJ pinned up some of the pictures from the file onto the board and began labelling them, Reid asked one of the officers for a map of the locality. Garcia was once again staring at the photos of Sam and Dean on the board... She seemed transfixed as she stood, absorbed in her own thoughts.

"Penelope?" Morgan asked. As she pulled herself from her daze, she looked up at him and forced a smile, but he could see there were tears swimming in her eyes. His brow furrowed in concern and he asked in a hushed tone, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine!" she replied, a little too flamboyantly. When he continued to search her eyes, not buying it for a moment, she swallowed the lump in her throat, turned away and mumbled, "I should get set up..."

"I'll help you bring all your stuff in." he replied, following her out of the room, through the station and into their tech room.

"Derek, it's okay," she insisted, "I'm fine, I can handle it."

"I'm sure you can, but I want to know what's got you all fuzzy eyed."

As he closed the door behind them, she looked up for a moment, considering whether to say what she was really thinking. "We deal with a lot of horrible stuff, Morgan, I... I sometimes just lose myself for a moment, that's all." she eventually said.

Still unconvinced, but unwilling to push the issue until she was ready to talk about it, Morgan bowed himself out. "Okay. I'll let you get on and do your thing. But you know I'm right here, right Babygirl?" Garcia nodded, smiling as he left and closed the door behind him.

Back in the office, Hotch was speaking to the rest of the group. "Prentiss – you and JJ go to the latest victim's house; interview the families. I want to know why _these_ victims. Reid will stay here and work on the geographical profile; Morgan, Rossi and I will go to the latest crime scene." With nothing more than a nod, Hotch left, and all of the team minus Reid filed out after him; each to their own assignments.

JJ and Prentiss arrived at the victim's house some ten minutes later, and after a relatively cold welcome, they both edged inside. JJ sat on the opposite end of the sofa to the Jordan Morse – the boyfriend of the latest victim, while Prentiss chose to stand, inspecting the room, making her own observations as she spoke.

"Did you notice any changes in her behaviour?"

Jordan shook his head and looked down, biting his lip for a brief second. "No, she was er... she was a little stressed, but it was just, you know – work stuff." he mumbled as he forced a smile.

JJ nodded, glancing up at Prentiss. The two women shared a knowing look.

"Jordan, what was she doing in the days prior to her death?" JJ asked.

"What was she doing?" he repeated, looking up at her with suspicious, bemused eyes.

"We only want to help." she reassured him, "We're trying to put together her last few days – where she went, what she was doing. That might help us figure out how the killers are selecting their victims."

"Well Shannon was... away, the few days before she was killed."

"Away?" Prentiss asked, raising an eyebrow.

When he didn't elaborate, JJ pried, "Her boss said she wasn't at work. She hadn't turned up in over 3 weeks. Do you know why that was?"

He shrugged, attempting to mask his uncomfortable shifting. "I dunno. She was busy with personal things in the past few weeks I guess."

"'Personal things'?" Prentiss turned her attention away from the décor and the pictures that stood neatly on the shelf, and looked at Jordan.

"Yeah," he nodded. "You know. Personal stuff."

As the two women nodded, they stood up, thanked him for his time and showed themselves out. It hardly needed saying, but Prentiss went there anyway as they closed the door behind them.

"Well he's certainly hiding something." she sighed.

JJ nodded. "Something he obviously doesn't think we should know."

-o-

Meanwhile, far out across town, the others had arrived at the clearing in the woods, where the latest murders had taken plcae.

The scene was messy and while the perimeter was swarming with cops, the three FBI agents were the only people on the other side. Police tape sectioned off a small part of the woods, where several bodies had laid. Now all lying cold and neat in the Lebanon Morgue, their bodies has been replaced with yellow markers, outlining the scene and all its evidence to the agents. In the centre of this particular bloodbath, was a large alter-like structure where some unearthly concoction of what looked suspiciously like blood and shards of bone were lying still in a large, shallow bowl.

"So," Morgan said as he marched up to Rossi and Hotch, who were busy inspecting the scene. "What have we got?"

"The bodies were moved to the morgue earlier this morning, but police have cleared the scene for us." Rossi answered, then added, "But something's bugging me. There are only two unsubs..."

"So how did two guys manage to subdue seven people all at once?" Hotch finished his train of thought for him as he looked around at the markers, furrowing his brow as he concentrated, searching for some sort of answer. "I spoke to the officer on scene – he didn't see any ligature marks. We'll have to wait for the coroner's official report, but it's unlikely they were restrained."

Morgan nodded, squinting up at the sun. "Maybe I can believe that some of the victims would have been too afraid to try and escape, but one of our vics was an ex-marine. There were seven of them, against two guys who, as far as we know, only had one gun. There's no way they would have just laid down and let themselves be captured, transported and executed."

As the three men looked around, searching for some kind of answer, some clue to explain this all, Rossi spoke again. "The Winchester's drive a '67 Impala. Don't get me wrong, that's a nice car, but not enough to transport 7 hostages."

"They could never have subdued this many people. When they appeared on the CCTV camera, they were alone." Hotch mused. "So they didn't kidnap them."

Morgan's tried to formulate an explanation. "They were here already. It's the only answer that makes any sense – the Winchester brothers must have found them here in the woods and ambushed them. Maybe if they were quick enough, they could have managed to kill all 7 of them."

"So the question is – why were they all here in the first place?" Rossi queried. Opening up the file in his hands, he began reeling of names, "Ben Morgan was an engineer who worked out of town, Mark McCarthy was an ex-marine, Lindsey Daley was a hairdresser... they all had different occupations, and besides the Abi and Marissa Jones, who are sisters, there's no indication any of them knew each other!"

"I don't know... we'll have to wait till we hear back from JJ and Prentiss on that one." Hotch replied, then added, "What concerns me is this." He pointed towards the alter, and the bronze bowl that lay atop it.

Rossi and Morgan edged closer, both staring silently in disgust at the bowl and its contents, until Morgan finally spoke. "Is this what our vics were doing when the Winchesters killed them, or did the brothers do this after they were done slicing up these folks?"

Then Hotch spoke up. "There was a previous agent – Hendrickson – he was on their case for several years. He wasn't a behavioural expert, but he had a lot to say about the satanic rituals that often surrounded their murders. I'm going to contact Strauss. We need all his files and reports."

"I'm not liking the ominous nature of that 'was'..." Morgan remarked.

"He was killed in a gas explosion after capturing Sam and Dean back in 2007. They were presumed dead."

"That's convenient."

Hotch frowned, then waved over an officer from the other side of the police tape, "I've ordered a toxicology report on the contents of the bowl." he said to Rossi and Morgan, as the officer approached, "In the meantime, you two should go down to the morgue and speak to the coroner.

Morgan and Rossi nodded, then swiftly departed. In truth, they were both glad to be rid of that scene. They'd dealt with their fair share of bodies; there were few things left that really got to them, but there was just something so _unsettling_ about the sight of a sacrificial alter with a bowl of blood on it, that neither agent cared too much for.

So while Hotch headed back to the station, Rossi and Morgan made their way over to the morgue where they met with Doctor Elizabeth Manson. After brief introductions and a handshake between them, Morgan asked what she had for them.

"Well, like you asked, I checked for ligature marks – nothing."

"None of the victims?" Morgan asked.

"Nope. I ran a toxscreen for all the victims in the woods too – nothing there either, though I did find something interesting in some of the blood work." she replied.

"What's that?"

"Sulphur." she replied plainly. When they raised their eyebrows, she continued, "When I looked at the excess blood in one of the knife-wounds on a molecular level, I found trace amounts of sulphur. At first I thought it could have been from something on the weapons, but when I took a closer look at the other victims, I found the same thing in the other blood samples I'd taken."

"_Sulphur_?" Rossi repeated, "Could it have been... put there, somehow?"

Manson shrugged, "I don't know; I don't see how. But I can't think of any reason why they'd have it in their blood otherwise..."

After a long pause as all of them digested the new information, Morgan eventually spoke. "Okay. Sulphur... Did you find anything else?"

"Not a lot." she sighed, "The cause of death for all seven victims were stab-wounds, which is odd, considering four of them were shot. Like I said – no ligature marks or signs of restraint. Al_though,_" she added, "there was some bruising beginning to surface on some of the victims on the knuckles, cheekbones and chest – all in the usual places you'd expect when you get into a fight. So my guess would be these victims were ambushed – they fought back, but eventually..." she let the heavy silence finish her sentence for her, and the agents nodded.

"Do you have anything on the other victims – the murders from the previous weeks?" Rossi asked.

Manson raised her eyebrows. "Now _they _are something else entirely. Come on, I'll show you." she beckoned them over as she walked towards the other side of the room and pulled open a freezer drawer, revealing what was left of a body.

The two agents exchanged glances, expressing something between horror and confusion as Doctor Manson pulled back the sheet that covered the broken body. He'd once been a tall, muscular dark skinned man, but now all colour was drained from his body and empty grey eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Revealed on the body was a grotesque array of cuts; deep and shallow, along with burns and what they could only assume were _bite_ marks.

"This charmer was one of the latest victims – before the incident in the woods. Now, I'm no behaviour expert, but I would never conclude this was done by the same guy." she said gravely, looking up at the two agents.

"Is that a bite mark?" Morgan frowned as he looked down at the body, carefully inspecting every wound closely.

The Doctor nodded. "No match so far on any dental records I've got access to. But I wasn't really expecting anything there. There are also what I can only describe as chemical burns; there are burns from a naked flame, and cuts made with an assortment of weapons too. And before you ask – no, none of these wounds match any of the weapons used on the seven victims from the woods.

"This murder is different in just about every way. This victim was kept alive for a prolonged period of time after his torture began – about two to three days; I can't be sure. The other seven victims were all killed before any real bruising could come up, suggesting they died almost instantly after the fight began." she said, "There are no hesitation marks. This is just plain torture. Cruel, prolonged and extremely painful."

"Have you determined cause of death yet?" Rossi inquired.

Manson shook her head. "Honestly? I have no idea. There are multiple wounds that _could, _probably _should _have caused his expiration, but I can't seem to find anything conclusive. I'm at a loss with this one." As Morgan and Rossi once again looked up and exchanged bemused glances, the Doctor spoke again, "I'm not telling you how to do your jobs, but these look like two totally different M.O.s to me." she finished.

Morgan nodded, "You're right, they do."

"These unsubs have a variety of murder techniques." Rossi added, still staring at the body as the Doctor shifted her gaze between one agent and the other. "It's what makes them so hard to catch."

Morgan then turned to his partner and asked, "So why the difference with _these _victims? What makes this victim so special he warrants a three-day-long torturing, while the other seven were jumped in the woods and killed instantly?"

Both the agents, highly skilled profilers though they were, were unable to come up with any feasible explanation for this. After several minutes of silence, in which all three of the company stood over the body, searching for some kind of answer, Morgan finally spoke.

"I don't know, Rossi. Something about this really doesn't feel right to me."

Then the doors swung open and Manson had to bid them goodday. "Well, you two are welcome to stay as long as you like, but my witch's cauldron has just arrived and I have to examine the contents, so..."

"No, of course. Thank you for your time Doctor." Rossi replied as they nodded to her, then turned and left.

-o- -o- -o-

Across town, a tall man wearing a long and dirty trench-coat climbed out of a '67 Impala, armed with a half-confident smile and a fake FBI badge..

"Alright, you check this house, then call me when you're done. I'll be three blocks down, talking to Mr Nickleson." Dean called from the driver's seat as Cas walked away, then added, "And Cas – _be nice_!"

After their encounter with Abaddon, and a stop-off at the Men of Letters bunker, the gang of three had decided to tail back to town and question _all_ the victim's families, now that they knew they were all Crowley's demons. There was something going on, and if Abaddon was cooking up a shit storm, they needed to find out what it was.

With the old, familiar rumble of her engine, the Impala sped up and off into the distance, leaving Cas standing on the pavement, in front of the old, three story house. He paused for a moment and looked up at the sky, which was darkening with every minute as the evening drew in. Letting out a semi-nervous sigh, he marched up to the front door and pressed gently for two precise seconds on the doorbell.

"Hello?"

"Hello. My name is Freddy Leicester," Cas replied, reading from his badge, before turning to show it to the young woman who'd answered the door. "I am from the FBI."

"No." she said quickly.

Cas paused for a moment, shuffling on his feet, then stumbled over his words, "Um... 'no'?"

"No, I haven't seen those guys you're after and no I do not want to speak to any more of you FBI people. Look, I've already talked with those other agents – the two women. How much more do you want?!"

"Other agents?"

"Yeah... don't you guys communicate or anything?" she asked, exasperated. "They came by here like half an hour ago, asking about Donnie. They're looking for these two guys – brothers." she answered, pulling out a photo and showing it to him.

Cas swallowed hard. "Um... thank you for your time." he mumbled, before turning to leave with a crumpled picture of Sam and Dean in his hands.

**A/N – thanks again for reading this far! I hope you like chapter as much as the last. Thank you for all your positive feedback, keep the reviews coming – they keep me going, and they let me know how well the story is received. Constructive criticism welcome!**

**I also apologise for any typos and/or spelling mistakes – spellcheck has stopped working on my computer! I've read it over several times, but I might have missed something...**


	3. Chapter 3

**So chapter 3 is up! It's considerably longer than the other chapters to date, but I'm sure you won't mind! Apologies again if you find any typos or errors – I still can't get spellcheck working on my computer. I hope you like it! A/N at the bottom.**

**Warnings: None**

**Words: 6000**

CHAPTER 3

Sam stood tall, dressed in his neat suit and striped tie. Standing next to the shabby construction worker in dirty and tattered clothes emphasised his neatness and he began to feel uncomfortably hot under the layers after trailing around Lebanon all day. With his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, Sam looked down at the man he was talking to, nodding as he listened to what he had to say. But as he spoke, Sam heard someone else speaking, someone who caught his attention...

"See this is why I don't like leaving the office, because everything's different and it's going to take me forever to sort through all their security systems – do you know how jumbled up their computer system is, JJ? It's a shamble... I like my work at home. It's comfy. There's not really much I can get from the security footage anyway."

The voice came from behind him – a distant sound from across the road, but the moment she started speaking, Sam's attention turned and his head followed, searching for the source. Speaking with that delightful, virbant tone that was familiar to him, the words left her lips at double speed.

Then, finally, something caught Sam's eye. Across the street, some way away, two blonde women were pulling large cases from the boot of a black SUV. One was a slim and pretty woman, dressed in an elegant suit. The other... _well I'll be damned_, he thought.

Without realising it, Sam's lips began to curl into a smile as he stared at her. She was a little taller and slightly larger than when he'd last seen her, and she was oozing a kind of confidence she could have only dreamed about back when he'd known her. But he'd recognise her anywhere. _Penelope Garcia_ – the word rang clear in Sam's mind as he stared, transfixed. And suddenly, he wasn't a fake-FBI agent anymore; he was a college student sitting in the little coffee shop just outside Stanford University – still just as tall, but somewhat weedier then...

_ "Hey Sam." she smiled a little nervously as she approached him._

_ "Penelope!" he beamed, then stood up and reached forward, embracing her in a tight hug. It had been almost three weeks since he'd last seen her, but there was a smile on her face and she was getting out. He was happy to see her doing so well. "How've you been?" he asked._

_ "Okay." she replied._

_ "D'you want a drink?" but before she could answer, he insisted, "Come on, I'm buying!"_

_ They moved towards a small table in the corner of the shop with drinks in hand. Garcia, who was slowly becoming visibly more comfortable, pried, "So what's been happening in your corner of the world?"_

_ "Not a lot," he answered, "I've got a couple of big tests coming up soon... I think my lecturer hates me." then, after a thought, he added, "I'm going out with a girl tomorrow night..."_

_ She jumped on it straight away. "A __girl?!__ Sam, you scoundrel! Give me the scoop! What's her name?"_

_ "Jess." he replied softly, "My friend Brody introduced us and we kinda hit it off. We've been out for coffee a couple of times... I really like her."_

_ Garcia stared at him, barely containing a goofy grin. A minute or so passed as she lowered her gaze again and inspected her latte, before she looked up at him._

_ "I'm happy for you!" she said quietly, nodding as she spoke._

_ The somewhat unlikely friendship had developed between the two over the past few months. Through a chance meeting in the very coffee shop where they now sat, Sam and she had struck up a conversation. Upon discovering she was the person responsible for the tech failure in the first-year department at Stanford, Sam couldn't help but laugh (she explained herself – she needed a larger circuit to compensate for her overload!) and they seemed to hit it off._

_ "So how are you doing, really?" Sam eventually asked, a little hesitant to broach the subject._

_ Suddenly the smile faded and he could have sworn that she got smaller right there and then; shrinking away into herself again to find the comfort she needed. After a moment's silence, she shrugged. "I'm okay I guess." Another pause, then, "Sam, can I ask you something?"_

_ "Anything."_

_ "Does it ever get easier?"_

_ Sam shook his head slowly as his face changed, now hosting an expression of empathy. "Not really. I mean, I was very young when I lost my mom, so I never even had the chance to know her. But that absence, that gaping hole in your life that you feel – you're gonna try and fill that with... anything, everything. But it's not going to work. Because no one is ever going to replace your parents. You've got to take each day, each hour as it comes and in time, you'll be able to be okay without them."_

_ Blinking away tears, Penelope replied, "I miss them so much. Some days it hits me all over again and I feel so lost, like I'm in this giant, dark hole and I can't get out and it's just sucking the life out of me..."_

_ Sam reached out and touched her hand, then turned it over and held it gently within his own. "I'm sorry Penelope, I really am. It sucks that you lost your parents. It sucks that this happened to you and not someone else. It sucks that you have to go through this, and it sucks that you feel alone. But bad things happen, and life really sucks sometimes. A lot of the time, actually."_

_ Garcia nodded. "I want to believe that bad things happen for a reason; I want to believe that so badly. But I really can't find any silver lining here..."_

_ "Maybe you won't ever find one." he said softly, "But just because you don't see it, doesn't mean it's not there." he smiled at her reassuringly. "But whatever you need – I'm here. Anytime."_

_ "You know... I think I might have just found my silver lining." she replied as a small but sure smile began to appear at the edges of her lips. And when Sam looked into those pale blue eyes, they were dancing._

Sam's eyes lit up too, settling in an expression of fondness as he returned the remeniscent smile of that girl many years ago.

"Those folks are from the FBI, are you working with them?" the construction worker standing next to Sam shook him from his thoughts.

"What? Um... yeah. Seperate investigation." Sam mumbled absently. Garcia. _FBI_?! "Huh..."

The construction worker nodded, as though he had any idea what Sam was talking about. "They've been trailing round town all day – that pretty one there and another lady. Asking about all these murders lately. All them people in the woods; terrible stuff." he muttered, "My Mrs says word is, they saw two guys on them CCTV cameras or somethin'. Two brothers they said - they've been on the FBI's special list for ages, but always managed to get away... one hell of a job the Feds are doing! How hard can two guys be to catch? Fuckin' up our town those murdering sons of bitches are, and all they've got to do about it is ask the same damn questions over and over. _If _y'all ever do manage to find them, do me a favour?_ Shoot 'em_."

Sam swallowed hard, brought to rapt attention again at the mention of himself and Dean; maybe not by name, but two brothers the FBI were looking for? Alarm bells were going off in every part of his brain. A thousand questions began racing through his thoughts – what if they found the bunker? How much did they know? Did the Feds think they were responsible for all this demon activity? And then one question, more important than any other tugged at his thoughts, and without another word he spun on his heels and walked swiftly away from the scene. _Where the hell were Cas and Dean?_

It was at the precise moment when Sam reached the end of the street that his phone began ringing. He hurriedly pressed the 'answer' button, already fumbling with his phone in an attempt to call Dean.

"Dean?" he asked worriedly.

"No, Castiel." the gruff reply came through the tiny speaker. "Sam we have to get back to the Bunker. There are other FBI agents, _real _ones, here."

"And they're after me and Dean." Sam completed his speech for him, "I know, I'm way ahead of you. Do you know where Dean is?"

"Right here," Sam breathed a small sigh of relief as he heard his brother's voice, "We're on our way to get you, where are you?"

The speedy get away wasn't terribly dramatic, but instead rather rushed and clumsy. Sam insisted he meet them halfway, somewhere away from the hotel that was probably swarming with Special Agents. When they finally reached one another, Dean sped off before his little brother could even close the door properly.

When they finally made it back to the bunker, fairly sure they weren't being followed by any ominous black SUVs, they hid the Impala in the basement garage, which took some time and maneuvering. But they couldn't risk their car being found, least of all near their hiding place.

"We have a problem." Cas said plainly. He passed a picture to the brothers, who sat on the other side of the table to where he stood. "They were looking for you specifically."

"Great." Dean sighed, "I suppose they think we're the ones responsible for that whole demon shebang in the woods?"

Sam nodded, "Apparently they caught us on one of the CCTV cameras across the street."

After several minutes of a heavy and rather awkward silence, Dean stood up grumpily and made his way to the coffee machine sitting on the sideboard. "Things were so much easier when we were dead." he mumbled.

-o- -o- -o-

The team, a total of six highly trained behavioural specialists and one genius technical analyst were all sat facing one another in the station's conference room. They were wading through Henrickson's reports and attempting to compile an accurate profile. As it was so far, they were at a loss.

Naturally, Reid had finished inspecting every detail of the file laid infront of him. After waiting a moment as he churned over the information in his mind, he spoke up. "Interesting that their crimes aren't limited to murder. Credit card fraud – presumably as their way of making money; grave desecrations – they even performed a seance on one occasion! All of Henrickson's notes suggest some dark, even religious undertones to their crimes. It could be possible that our unsubs are suffering from delusions; they've definitely had some sort of religious or supersticious influence."

"I don't know..." Morgan mumbled as he eyed the page for a second time, then looked up at the rest of the group. "They seem pretty organised to me. They've managed to evade capture how many times? Five? Six? And that's just what we know of."

The team leader, Aaron Hotchner was frowning at the report in his hands. "The coroners report on the alter at the crime scene was inconclusive – it contained lamb's blood, an assortment of charred animal bones, including a cat skull..." as Hotch continued to reel off the items on the list, the agent's faces began to contort; save for Reid, who's brow furrowed in concentration. "... and several trace elements she couldn't identify. Interestingly, there were traces of sulphur on some of the burnt bones." Hotch finished.

"Sulphur?" Morgan echoed, "The coroner said she found traces of sulphur in the wounds of the victims from the woods."

"Sulphur definitely has religious conotations." Reid interjected. "It's mentioned multiple times in the Bible, usually referring to God's judgement or demonic activity. I'm not familiar with any supersticious rituals that involve those particular ingredients though..."

"So they have religious fantasies." JJ said, "But what I want to know is how did they manage to convincingly fake their own deaths so many times? Dean was supposedly _burried _back in 2005 after a string of murders. They escaped after being captured in 2006, were presumed dead after the gas explosion that killed Agent Henrickson, and then a fourth time in St. Louis, Missouri, after their killing spree across America. Surely after they've done it so many times, the authorities would look more carefully? I mean, there are only so many tricks you can pull."

"So they're either extremely lucky, or highly skilled." Prentiss said, offering her insight to the table.

Morgan nodded. "They managed to subdue and take out seven people in the woods, one of whom was an ex-marine. That's a pretty impressive show of strength. So my money would be on highly skilled. What makes no sense to me is the sparadic nature of their murders. The coroner was right – there doesn't seem to be any descernable pattern to all of their crimes. Practically every murder has a different M.O!"

"How's the geographical profile coming, Reid?" Hotch asked. Everyone's attention shifted as Spencer stood up and made his way towards the board, which held two maps – one of Lebanon and the other of the USA in its entirety.

"So their recent murders would lead me to believe they're currently staying somewhere in this vacinity." he chimed, motioning to the large circle drawn onto the Lebanon map. "It's highly unlikely that they've never really had a stable home for a period of more than a few weeks at a time." he continued, now moving to the larger map of America. "All of these blue pins represent crimes we know or have good reason to believe the Winchesters have committed. The red pins represent crimes that might have been comitted by them, but we don't have enough evidence to support."

"They've covered a _lot _of ground." Emily said.

"Henrickson's report suggests their father moved them around a lot when they were younger, it's likely a pattern they continued into adulthood." Hotch interjected.

JJ stared hard at the board for a second, then asked, "What do we know about their father?"

"There's no indication of where he is now," replied Reid, "In all of their later crimes they've acted alone. Henrickson believed he was a criminal too, probably comitting similar murders to his sons, but there's not a lot of evidence to support that hypothesis."

"Garcia?" Rossi turned towards her.

Garcia, who was staring not at any report, but instead at her laptop, perked up. Her fingers moved over the keys at an alarming pace for a few seconds, then she began to reel off information as it came to her.

"John Winchester was an only child, born and raised in Normal, Illinois; joined the marines in 1970. After he'd finished his time, he moved to Lawrence, Kansas, where he later married Mary Campbell. There's very little medical history – an apendectamy when he was twelve and a broken leg from a climbing accident when he was a fifteen; all just routine stuff. His criminal record only begins when the boys were teenagers, where he was accused of credit-card fraud on multiple occasions. He worked in a car repair shop as a mechanic for 10 years, before he disappeared. Whereabouts currently unknown."

"What about Sam and Dean? Can you bring up all the family history from their early years?" Hotch pried.

After a little more typing, a quiet, "_Oh_..." left her lips.

"What?" Prentiss asked.

"Their mom, Mary Winchester, died in a house-fire when Sam was just six months, and Dean four."

"Was it accidental?"

Unaware of who was even asking the question, Garcia's eyes flickered back and forth across the screen. "The fire services couldn't determine anything other than that the fire started in the nursery." some more avid typing, "Three months later they dropped off the grid. John quit his job; the house was sold."

"Can you get any more on their mother's death?" Rossi asked.

Garcia's bright eyes wavered for a moment, before she finally answered, "One of John's work collegues made an official inquiry about his mental health, saying he was, quote, _'obsessed'_ over his wife's death. John claimed he saw his wife burning on the ceiling."

"Did they ever do anything about the inquiry?" it was this time JJ who inquired.

"Nope." she replied as she continued to search, picking through every file she could find, "After he sold the house, John turned in his resignation and there's nothing after that. Sam and Dean were enrolled in several schools all over the country, but never more than a few weeks at a time. The last record of Dean's education was his enrollment in Texas County High when he was sixteen. He was there for two weeks. After that there's nothing. Well, until his criminal career starts at age twenty-six.

"Sam, on the other hand, continued to enroll in schools, usually only for a few weeks or sometimes a month or two at a time. All the way till he'd finished High School and got accepted into Standford Law..." Garcia's voice trailed off as she got caught up in her thoughts again, unable to stop her mind from wondering. She was just eighteen again, talking to Sam, the clever Standford boy... "Um... their dad must have paid for everything in cash or got a new identity, because there's no record of him anywhere. He's a ghost."

Mulling over the new information, the team continued to discuss the possible psychology and motives of the Winchester brothers, but Penelope was too wrapped up in her own thoughts to hear them. As they became a murmer of background noise, she thought of him again, of Sam so many years ago now. He was a lot younger then, and looked it; kinda scrawny, but tall, and he had the most gorgeous baby face.

She'd known that his mom had died, but somehow seeing it on the screen in front of her, a giant black and white storm of a headline, proclaiming her tragic death, made it all different. He was just a baby, and she'd died in his room. She was burned alive ...It made her so sad.

She'd never really fully known all that much about Sam. It was only now, looking at his history on the black and white, unforgiving screen that she fully realised it.

He was the boy who noticed her; who took the time to care for her when she wanted to be invisible. He was the boy who walked right into that coffee shop and started talking to her. He was the boy who'd wait every Thursday afternoon in the park, even when she was late, even when she didn't come. He was the kindness that no one showed her back then; the hope she needed when she was all alone. The idea that he could now be a killer was nothing short of absurd!

"So Dean dropped out of school early. Any legitimate employment he had would show up on record, so it's likely that's when he turned to crime. But what about Sam?" JJ asked.

"Even with his unstable childhood environment, and despite never having any decent education, he managed to get into Stanford Law." Hotch mused.

Rossi agreed. "That's pretty impressive. Seems he was interested in doing something with his life. So when did he stop being a contributing citizen and start being a serial killer?"

Pulled from her thoughts by the mention of Sam and Stanford again, Garcia began searching once more. But now it felt wrong; now she was looking into the life of someone she knew, someone she'd been close to. Somehow it was different, this was _Stanford; _this was when she'd known him.

"Sam was an honour student, he got a full-ride scholorship. He got good reports, 174 on his SAT score. Then he suddenly dropped out... oh my god." Garcia let out an involuntary whisper. When everyone waited expectantly, she was forced to continue, "He dropped out after his girlfriend was killed in a house-fire at their apartment..." she whispered as she looked up and around at the faces staring at her.

A heavy silence settled over the room.

Eventually, it was Morgan who broke it. "So his mom dies in a house fire in his nursery when he's a kid, then his girlfriend dies in a house-fire at their apartment. That's one hell of a coincidence."

"Could it have been murder?" Rossi asked.

"Sam was just a baby when his mom died; he can't have been responsible for that." Prentiss replied.

Morgan then posed another explanation, "What if it was the father? He could have started both fires."

Hotch spoke again. "If John claimed he saw his wife burning on the ceiling, he could have had a psychotic episode; started the fire without even knowing it. If his delusions continued, they would have had a very damaging effect on his children, especially if they had no other influences. It could be the catalyst that started the killings."

"After Jess died, Sam pretty much drops off the grid too." Garcia spoke, her voice uncharacteristically small all of a sudden, "Until he starts killing people that is..."

"Maybe it was a motive to get him to join his brother then?" Prentiss posed. "He was getting on with his life, maybe he needed a push. He'd have a lot of grief in him if his girlfriend was killed."

"Most relationships within teams have a dominant and a submissive. Is it possible Sam's been manipulated into submission?" Morgan asked, then added, "And what about John? He's not involved in any of the brother's recent crimes. Did he stop killing? Did they separate?"

"Or did they kill him?" the words left Garcia's lips before she'd even realised what she'd said and as soon as she heard her own words, her eyes widened and she clamped her lips shut. All eyes turned to her, somewhat taken aback at her input, but none more than Penelope herself. She couldn't believe she'd even _think _that! But as much as she wanted to banish the memory from her mind, it was there, clear as day...

_"So you don't get on with your dad?" she asked._

_ Sam laughed humourlessly. It was dry and bitter and so very unlike Sam. It echoed in Garcia's ears as he spoke, unsettling her somewhat. "No. Never really did. We're just... different people – we've got nothing in common."_

_ They were older now; one year on from that chance meeting in the coffee shop that had sparked this friendship. Garcia was doing a lot better; coming out of her shell again, and coming into her own. Sam had flown through his first year at College and still impressed her with every word. Except for now. Despite having told him just about everything there was to know about her parents, he always seemed to seize up when she tried to talk about his._

_ "I went through a phase when I was like 15 where I hated my mom. I mean, I still loved her – I always will, but it just felt like everything she was doing, she was doing against me. Like everything was my fault and everything I did was a mistake. But now that she's gone I regret every single moment I was ever mad at her. I spent so long being horrible to her just because we just didn't get on." there was a pause, then she added, "You still have your dad, Sam. I don't wanna be cheesy, but please don't leave it till it's too late."_

_ It was perhaps the first piece of serious advice that she'd ever offered him. But he talked about his father as though he was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, and it made her sad. It also made her angry, because he still had a father and she didn't. And she'd give anything to have a dad back; even if he was the crappiest dad in the world._

_ Sam knew she meant well, and for almost anyone else it would have been pretty good advice. But he'd stopped trying with his dad a long time ago; namely, the day when he left for Stanford. He hadn't looked back since, and he didn't have a single regret. Except, maybe... just maybe, __Dean__._

_ So he tried to explain. "You said your dad used to make you sandwhiches when you went to school, right?" he asked. She nodded. "Well my dad never made me sandwiches. My __brother__ made me sandwhiches. My dad never came home at night and hugged me, because he never came home. He'd come back to a crummy motel we were staying in, usually drunk. My dad never explained my mom's death to me. My brother did. My dad never fed me. My brother did. My dad never asked me what I wanted, he never gave a single thought to what I might need, and whenever he messed up, he'd wait for us to clean it up._

_ "My brother looked after me, and I loved him more than anything for that. But he was always my dad's favourite. He was just like him, so he was fine! But nothing I ever did was good enough. Every time I tried to help, he'd yell at me about how I was doing it wrong. Everytime Dean did something, he'd look at him with pride. And when I told my dad I wanted to go to College, he laughed, and said that __Dean__ would never go to College; that it wasn't something we could do. And when I told him I had a full-ride to Stanford, you know what he said? He told me if I was gonna go, I shouldn't come back."_

_ The silence in the room settled over them like an overbearing raincloud threatening a storm, and Garcia shifted uncomfortably._

_ "You see, I lost my mom. And I wish like hell that I still had her. But I never had a dad. Not really."_

_ "Sam..."_

"Huh?"

Garcia turned to see Morgan looking at her quizzically. "What?" she asked.

"Did you say something?"

She shook her head, silently damning herself for saying his name outloud. "I er... found something" she replied.

She didn't want to share it. It was too personal, though she daren't keep it to herself.

"Garcia?"

"Right... a Sam Winchester was admitted to a psychiatric hospital after being hit by a car in March 2012. He was suffering a psychotic episode and experiencing severe insomnia."

It was then Reid who added his two pence to the discussion, "Dean is the only brother who has crimes independent of their duo crimes. He gagged and bound several women in their own homes, prolonging their torture for hours. As far as we can tell, Sam had nothing to do with those crimes. Given we now know Sam has a history of mental illness, it's most likely Dean is the dominant and Sam the submissive."

Prentiss, who was flicking through the file again, stopped on a page near the front and picked up the pictures. She swallowed, replaced them in the file, and then spoke. "What really confuses me is the pattern to their killings. This crime was brutal and sadistic – textbook sexual sadism." she said, holding up a picture of one of the murdered women. "Then the business at the bank: the news channels reported it as a robbery gone wrong, but nothing was stolen; no money was missing. At the crime scene they found several bodies and even what the coroner described as _'Large pieces of removed, disintergrated skin_'. One woman was found stabbed through the chest and the skin from her right arm was entirely removed. It was a brutal, sadistic attack.

"Then you look at this killing spree that shot them to the top of the FBIs Most Wanted list – it's an entirely different M.O. They weren't prolonging anyone's suffering, there was no sexual sadism involved. They were all quick and simple; impersonal."

"And they had them filmed." interjected Morgan. "They always made sure they were in the limelight. In these crimes they wanted to create fear, not pain. They wanted everyone to know what they were doing, it's like they _wanted _to get caught! It's the exact opposite of all their previous behaviour."

"Is it possible they wanted to get caught so they could disappear – make everyone think they were dead?" asked JJ.

Hotch shook his head. "They were already presumed dead after the gas explosion in Monumnet, Colorado. And by putting themselves out on camera for all the world to see, they made themselves visible. Almost anyone in America would have recognised their faces."

Rossi added, "All previous behaviour suggests they wanted to quietly get on with their crimes. They were only caught because they slipped up. So why the sudden craving for publicity?"

After a long and awkward silence fell onto the group as they all searched for their own answers, but found none, Morgan spoke up again.

"They've been doing this for ten years at least, probably more. They're highly experienced and so far, no efforts _anyone_ has made to capture them have succeeded. They even have the gall to impersonate FBI agents. They're some of the most dangerous people we've ever chased and they're going to be _damn_ hard to catch." he said gravely, "You know, it wouldn't surprise me if they comitted such different and sparadic murders just to mess with us or avoid capture."

The second silence that followed Derek's grave comment was thick and dark. Garcia was one again lost in thought, barely able to conceive Sam capable of any of this. They could practically hear Reid's brain working away; all the cogs spinning as he tried to put this together. But they were _all _drawing up a blank.

After Hotch dismissed them, instructing they all go back to their hotel rooms and get some sleep before they look at this again, Garcia returned to the station's tech room.

She could have done it in their conference room, but she didn't like the idea of seeing it in such an open space. This felt private, like an exchange between her and Sam. She knew she shouldn't have – it wouldn't do any good. But she needed an explanation. She had to see for herself, to believe that these brothers were actually capable of and responsible for the atraucities which they were accused.

The video began; black and white and somewhat blurred – CCTV footage was never excellent quality. But it was more than she needed. She could see the bullets leaving the rifles in rapid-fire, she could see Dean look up the camera and _wink._ She could see the pleasure they took in shooting all those civilians. And though she knew there was no sound on the video she was watching, she could have sworn she heard them scream.

She couldn't bring herself to watch another one. She couldn't bear to see Sam like that again – so different from how she'd known him. He was bigger and buffer, yes, but he was darker too. He didn't have that light in his eyes anymore... he was an entirely different person, wearing a Sam-face.

She didn't want to remember him like that; she didn't want to know him as a killer. She wanted to think about the bright eyed boy who had been her light and day...

_"Sam!" she squealed as she opened the box. She was looking down at a special edition of 'The Art of Computer Programming', tied neatly with a silver bow. She probably already knew everything the book had to offer, and it was vastly outaded anyway. But she was holding, in her own hands, an original print, special edition. "How did you...?" she couldn't even finish the question._

_ "I stole it for you." When her eyes widened, Sam laughed and she punched his shoulder. Then he shrugged. "I'm kidding. I know somebody who knows somebody who knows somebody. Happy Birthday Penny."_

_ Then, without warning, she launched herself at him and wrapped him in a death-grip of a hug. When she finally let go, she leaned back, held his face in her hands and said, "I totally love you. You know that, right? You adorable, perfect, stupid... ugh!" she finished, kissing him on the forehead and leaving a faint lipstick mark. She wiped it off and they both grinned._

A small smile was still set on Sam's face as he thought about her again, while Dean continued to rant and rave.

"Damn Feds always fucking up our cases!" he muttered.

"They're only doing their jobs Dean." Sam sighed, but he knew it was no good.

"Yeah well their job sucks cos we're trying to save their asses and all they're doing is slowing us down!" he continued raising his voice.

Sam got up and walked round the table, towards the coffee machine, where Dean continued to pace up and down. "We need to be more careful." he said simply.

"What do we do now?" asked Cas.

The question was brewing at the beginning of an argument and Sam wasn't sure he wanted to go there. "We need to lie low for now." he said, eyeing Dean and waiting for a response.

"There's no way I'm laying low here to save my own ass while Abaddon has free fucking reign of Lebanon to do whatever the hell it is she's plotting!" Dean snapped.

"If we get caught, Dean, we won't be able to do _anything_! We've at least got the option of research if we stay here. No matter what we find out there, we're gonna have to eventually come back here to the library to find the answer to whatever it is she's planning! We _know _she's up to something. And we need these books to find out what. Plus, if we really need something done, we can send Cas out."

Dean frowned. "Right, send the trainee out to do our dirty work, sounds great!"

Cas scowled. Dean sighed. Sam rolled his eyes.

-o- -o- -o-

"Morgan?" Garcia's voice sounded rushed and desperate.

Rubbing his eyes, he sat up in bed and threw back the fancy hotel room sheets. "Garcia?"

"Morgan you have to get down to the station, now! I've found something! Something... _huge_." the excitement was bouncing through every word.

"What... What are you talking about?" he mumbled in return, then, "Wait... it's four in the morning babygirl, why in hell are you still at the station?"

"That's not important! Just get your ass over here now! I'm blowing this case wide open! And tell the others!" she added.

The quiet click that followed told him she'd hung up.

Less than twenty minutes later, Morgan and Prentiss found Garcia sitting up in front of several computer screens, eyes wide.

"Garcia... have you been here all night?" Emily asked, squinting at her against the glaring light of the computers.

For a moment, Garcia looked like a child caught sneaking an extra cookie. "I may have overdosed on caffeine a little." she mumbled, then asked, "Where are the others?"

"They're... on their way." Morgan replied, "Why've you been up all night?"

"Hotch asked me to keep digging on the Winchesters, using any aliases we know of and see what I can find. The more we know the better, right? I would have gone back to the hotel hours ago but I found something. Something... mega-huge!"

The two agents turned their attention to the computer screens lit up with text and frowned as they studied it for a moment. Their eyes flicked from one to another – pages and pages of... _something_, covering each large screen.

Then Prentiss spoke. "Whose... _Carver Edlund_?"

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o -o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

**A/N → Thank you all so much for reading this far, and for all the reviews – it's one of the longest fics I've written and your kind words keep me going! This was definitely one of the harder chapters to write (and I've drafted seven!) because of all the profiling, which obviously, I have no experience of. I hope you feel all the characters are still themselves and I've given them a good play.**

**I also had to consult the supernatural wiki pages a **_**lot**_** for the dates and names etc. so a shoutout to my saviours!**

**Please let me know what you think of this chapter (and all the Sam/Garcia, because I am in love with the idea of them!) - leave a review and shower me with compliments! :P**


	4. Chapter 4

**I'm so sorry this chapter's late. Thank you so much for your patience. I hope you like this one as much as the others.**

**A/N at the bottom.**

**Warnings: None**

**Words: 5400**

CHAPTER 4

The next few days were uneventful. Dean and Cas continued to search, scouring the Men of Letter's library for some clue as to what Abaddon might be planning. After turning up absolutely nothing, the pair began to lose patience.

The FBI SSA's also continued their search, with a similar lack of results. As nothing was happening and no other bodies turned up, they had no options left but to turn to the books Garcia had discovered.

Garcia stood at the front of the conference room dressed in the same clothes she'd worn the previous day – a flashy blue silk dress and silver cardigan. She was ready with a presentation, bright eyed and grinning with excitement. Refusing to acknowledge their doubtful expressions, she began excitedly. "Hotch asked me to scour every database I could find for any information possible about the Winchesters. Well, I stumbled upon this." She held up several paperbacks, fanned in each hand like they were cards in a deck. .

"This is a pulp fiction series called '_Supernatural_' written by a Carver Edlund.. Although their last name is never mentioned, it's about two brothers called Sam and Dean who travel around America hunting demons and ghosts and monsters and stuff. It outlines the entirety of their life; it goes into a _lot _of detail. Only, it's a little, well, _dark_. The published series starts with their mother's death in Sam's nursery in 1983, then skips ahead to when Sam is in College. From that point it moves through three years of adventures and ends with Dean going to hell in a complicated deal where he paid with his soul to have Sam brought back from the dead."

Several of the agents exchanged glances.

She took just a second to gage their reactions then took a deep breath, and pushed on with her presentation. "After that book, the publishing company cancelled the contract and stopped printing the series. But – and this is where it gets interesting – Carver Edlund doesn't exist; it's just a pen name. The author, a recluse named Chuck Shirley, disappeared in 2009. When an employee of the publishing company went to his house to look for him, she found more stories. The complete series, which she published online, ends in 2009 after Sam and Dean, along with the help of an angel and an old hunter, stop the apocalypse."

Quiet settled over the team. Rossi ran his hands through his grey hair. "So, the question is, are these books a description of how the Winchesters see themselves or is this writer plotting scenarios which they've decided to follow?

"I've only had a chance to skim a couple of the books," Penny said "But I did a little research and found something creepy. In the very first story, a boy named Troy Squire was killed by a ghost in Jericho, California. Well that checked out. A kid named Troy Squire did go missing back in 2005. And that's not the only thing that has checked out..."

Hotch spoke up. "Whether this is something the Winchesters decided to act on or if they wrote it themselves, it's likely this is how the brothers view their world. As of now we have zero leads." Hotch looked like he had a bad taste in his mouth.

"Unfortunately, these books are all we have. Maybe we can turn up some of their contacts or bolt holes. Split these up and everyone read for clues. Remember, you're all profilers. Treat these books like interviews and try to make a construct of the suspects' personalities."

"I'll send the transcripts to your iPads," Garcia interjected.

Over the next few days the team spent most of their free time engrossed in the Edlund books. Reid finished the series in record time and spent the time he was waiting for the rest of the team to catch up helping Garcia with her research. Rossi, JJ and Hotch stayed in the office reading and Morgan and Prentiss retreated to their comfortable hotel rooms to finish them, well supplied with room service snacks.

As Prentiss reached the end of the last book, the following day, she caught herself tearing up. She knew she should have been disgusted, that these two saw themselves as heroes after all they'd done. But though she knew it was a work of fiction, most likely the result of a delusioned individual and a manipulative brother, she found herself caught up in the possibility that it could be real.

She thumbed her bracelet as she thought, trying to make sense of the story, trying to banish the idea from her mind. She put the book down and relaxed, taking a deep breath, as she used her skills as a profiler to analyse their beliefs, instead of pondering the possibilities of '_if's_ and '_maybe's_. If this was the way that the Winchesters saw themselves, then the team had a real problem. The brothers in these books were fighting against evils released by Hell. In the Winchester world, Hell was not a religious construction designed to keep credulous believers in line; it was a real place with real demons and run by a fallen Angel. This could be a game-changer.

Early in the evening, the team assembled to bounce around ideas. One by one they filed into the conference room, each with their own take on the books they'd read. Hotch was the first in – dressed in a dark grey suit practically identical to the one he'd worn yesterday. After him came Morgan, grim faced and stern, obviously not happy. JJ, Garcia and Rossi followed, and then Prentiss. She was several minutes late, and rushed in, pushing a lock of jet black hair behind her ear as she put her coat over the back of her seat and sat down. Hotch didn't waste any time, but called them to order and dove right into their brainstorming session.

"I think we now have a pretty good idea of what kind of mythology the Winchesters have constructed for themselves," he started. "I believe that whether they had their ghost writer, Edlund, write up adventures for them or if they wrote these stories themselves under his name doesn't matter. This is the world as they see it. If we want to get into their heads then we have to accept this world and try to deduce where they will go from here. I have no explanation for the appearance of foreknowledge of real events to come and I don't think we can spend our time worrying about it. After we catch them, we'll get an answer. Possibly we'll uncover a whole new set of crimes that have until this point in time, remained unsuspected."

Prentiss chimed in with her thoughts. "These books are pretty violent and gory. But underneath all the fantasy, the story is about two brothers who have nothing left but each other. Their love for one another saved the world and the story itself is actually quite beautiful."

"But they didn't save the world, Prentiss." Morgan replied, "They've committed numerous brutal murders – far more than we ever thought, if these stories are anything to go by. And these books are their way of justifying their violence."

"True, but whether it's real or not, this is how they see themselves. If these stories are an accurate portrayal of their relationship, we know them better than we've known any of our unsubs before. They're dangerously co-dependant and they'll do anything for each other; their love is the driving force behind all of their actions." she replied.

"It's possible that, aside from all the fantasy, the events and the relationships in the book are accurate. They may believe all this stuff about demons, and it's their way of justifying their actions, it's how they see themselves; ridding the world of evil." Rossi commented. He went on, "They appear to have their own rules about right and wrong. It is wrong to kill humans but it is heroic and right to kill demons. The religious justification to their crimes is their way of telling the world their victims were evil."

"Then are they psychopaths as we initially thought?" Reid asked. "If they have a moral code and stick to it and it is based on religious principals taught to them as children they may be classified as true believers, not psychopaths."

"If that is true, then they're not going to be reasoned out of their beliefs." Prentiss remarked.

Hotch nodded gravely. "Garcia, I'd like you to do some background checks into the victims mentioned in the books, anyone the Winchester's killed – see if we can discern why they saw these particular people fit to kill."

Garcia nodded furiously and there was a momentary pause in the conversation, until Rossi asked, "Garcia, what can you tell us about the author of these books? You said he used a pen name?"

"The name under which the books were published was 'Carver Edlund', but the publishing company has his real name on file – Chuck Shirley. He even wrote himself into the stories, which is pretty neat. Problem is; I can't find him _anywhere_. He pops up on the grid when he starts writing the books – suddenly he's got a house listed in his name, health insurance, phone and gas bills etc. No living relatives, no family history. This continues until 2009; when the last story ends. Then suddenly there's nothing. He stops paying his bills, his insurance, his everything, and when the authorities go to his house they find nothing. It's like he literally disappeared into thin air."

"So if the Winchesters invented this story, why did they suddenly stop after the that particular book?" JJ asked.

Rossi shrugged. "Maybe they got tired; didn't want to play the game anymore."

"The story ends with Sam jumping into the pit with Lucifer and Michael – this could be symbolic of something." Reid interjected. "It could certainly signify a change of some kind; the end of their fantasy."

"Okay, this is weird..." Penelope mumbled from behind her laptop. When everyone turned their attention to her, she spoke up a little. "You know what I said before about most of the events in the books actually happening? Well I've looked at the publishing dates and the books were all published around the times when the actual events were taking place; give or take a couple of days..."

"Which means the stories must have been written _before_ the events took place." Reid completed her train of thought for her.

Eyes widened around the room as every agent looked at another.

"So either they wrote these stories and _then _acted them out," Morgan said, "Or they actually were written by this Chuck guy and Sam and Dean decided to copy them."

"The author gave them a virtual blueprint for their lives and their crimes." JJ's brow furrowed. She looked up at the other agents. "Given his sudden disappearance, it's likely they killed him."

"They didn't want to play by his script anymore." Hotch suggested.

"That could explain why their recent murders have been so different!" Prentiss added, "If they're not following this story anymore, there are no rules. They can do whatever they like."

"But then how do you explain how the natural events match up – the storms and ?" JJ asked, "Are we suggesting this guy was some kind of fortune teller?"

The questions never ended. Every question was met with another question and the story didn't make sense. It seemed no matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get all the pieces to fit. As much as they wanted to make this make sense, they all knew they were missing something essential about the story.

Of course it never crossed their mind that the story might simply be true.

Days passed, and in the bunker, all three hunters were edgy. Dean in particular was snapping at every turn. For almost three days they'd been trapped by the FBI's manhunt for them, and things had only worsened after Sam had discovered the news report on the _Lebanon Local_ website.

"Shit." he'd muttered under his breath, and as soon as the word left his mouth he regretted it.

"What?" Dean asked, moving towards the table where Sam sat.

Sam sighed heavily as he turned the laptop screen so that Dean could read the headline: _9__th__ DISAPPEARANCE AS FBI CONTINUE MANHUNT. _Next to the picture of a smiling college student with long brown hair and thin-framed glasses was a body of text, describing in detail the murders and disappearances that had recently devastated the town. Sam and Dean were mentioned by name, as the perpetrators believed to be responsible. There was a desperate plea from the young girl's parents, a section describing the brothers as _'dangerous and delusioned individuals with a history of brutal violence and satanic affiliations'_, then finally, several pictures of the Winchesters from every angle.

As his eyes scanned over the page, Dean's face contorted into a frown, and he began to clench his jaw. He said nothing. Instead he stood up slowly, took several slow steps away from the computer, then took a violent swing at an empty plate lying on the table. The plate smashed as it hit the floor and pieces of fine china scattered all over the floor.

"We should have gone out." he spat.

Sam didn't argue. Abaddon had just snatched someone else and Dean was pissed. But they both knew if they'd gone out there, they would have most likely been caught. If they went out now they were certain to be caught. They were sitting ducks, unable to manoeuvre and powerless to stop Abaddon even if they _could _figure out what she was up to. Now all they could do was wait and hope the protection of the bunker extended to law enforcement.

"I need a beer." Dean sighed. He disappeared into the kitchen. Seconds later he returned with a murderous expression. "We're out of beer." he said plainly. Sam could practically see the _fuck-my-life_ sentiment painted with his expression.

After a short argument and protests from everyone involved, Castiel left the bunker and headed out for the nearest shop.

He was gradually getting used to this whole human thing, and shopping wasn't too difficult a task. Dean had given him a short list, and it didn't take him more than ten minutes to find what he wanted. He fumbled with several crumpled $10 notes and flattened them on the counter as the cashier bagged his items.

"Nice day," she smiled, attempting polite conversation.

Castiel looked up at her as he took the bags from her. "No." he replied, shaking his head.

Back in the bunker, Dean grew impatient and Sam a little nervous. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. After fourty-five minutes had gone by since he left, Dean fumbled around for his phone.

"How difficult is it to find a damn store and get some fucking beer?!" he mumbled as he clicked the button and heard it ringing on the other end.

"Dean!" an enthusiastic voice answered, sending chills down his spine.

"Abaddon." he breathed frantically, looking over at Sam, "Where's Cas?!"

"Oh here's here, sweet!" she exclaimed, smirking. She giggled as she ran her fingers through his hair, then returned her attention to Dean. "I just need to _borrow _him for a little while. You don't mind, do you?"

"Abaddon I swear, if you touch one fucking hair on his head I'm gonna rip your throat out through the barrel of a shotgun!" he hissed.

"Oops!" she giggled as she plucked a handful of hair from Castiel and began to inspect it. "Too late! It's a lovely brown colour isn't it?" Dean began to say something, but she cut him off. "Oh relax! You see it's not actually him I need to borrow, just some of his blood. You can have your lover boy back when I'm done. Well... what's left of him. I'll leave it in a bag on your doorstep."

Then she hung up.

Dean looked around frantically at Sam, who waited expectantly for an explanation.

"I have to go!" he exclaimed, searching for his keys.

"Dean, wait!" Sam called, following him into the bedroom, then out again as Dean began muttering to himself. "What happened?"

"Abaddon's got Cas. She said she needed his blood... I've got to stop her. Where the fuck are my damn keys?!"

"Wait," Sam paused, "Why would she need Cas' blood? He's not an angel anymore, he's useless to her!"

"I don't know, Sam. Maybe we got in her way, maybe she just wants to fuck with us. Or maybe she actually needs him for something. I don't care. I'm going to find her and get him back." Dean replied as he charged into the kitchen, tossing everything in his path in his frantic search.

"Dean, wait! You can't go out now! This could be just a trap to draw you out! The FBI are still breathing down our necks, if-"

"I don't care!" Dean shouted. He paused for a moment and looked straight into Sam's eyes. "I can't lose him, Sam. Not again. I don't care of the FBI clap me in chains the minute I walk out that fucking door – I'm not leaving him behind."

Sam continued to plead, but Dean wasn't listening. "Dean you don't even know where they are! And what are you gonna do if you do find her? You think she's just gonna let you walk right in and take Cas?"

Dean finally found his keys; grabbing them manically, he charged towards the door, turning back for a second to reply, "I'll tell you what I'm gonna do Sammy. When I find them I'm gonna cut that bitch up until she's begging for mercy. And then I'm gonna shoot her in the face."

With that he was gone.

Sam sighed heavily. He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed his face in his hands.

Now they knew one more thing than they'd known five minutes ago – Abaddon needed Castiel's blood. It wasn't much, but right now it was the only thing he had to go on, and maybe, just maybe it could be the missing piece to her dark and particularly nasty puzzle.

All the same, Sam was worried about, and a little angry with his brother. He'd left the only safe place they had. In truth he'd rather Dean be caught by the FBI, if only to protect him. He understood why Dean had to go; he cared a lot for Cas himself, but Dean in prison was a hell of a lot better than Dean six feet underground.

Unbeknown to him, Sam didn't have to wait long for his wish to come true. Dean didn't make it as far as the end of the High Street before he heard sirens blaring and was surrounded by two large black SUVs and a dozen police cars. He was inspecting the paintwork on the bonnet of one of the cars within seconds. There was a lot of shouting and he was thrown down against the cold metal by a tall, dark skinned agent. Squinting against the setting sun, he could just make out two others in similar FBI vests – a pretty blonde woman and an older, stern looking man who stood with his arms folded.

Dean didn't fight any of it; there was no use. Instead he rolled his eyes and expressed his agitation. Any other day he'd have just been pissed off. But the only friend Dean had who was still alive could be dead by the time he found a way out of this.

After being left in an interrogation room for over two hours, chained to the desk, he'd eventually settled into relatively calm state, assuring himself Sam was going to figure this out. He always managed something, and even now, after so many years, he still managed to surprise Dean every now and again.

Several rooms away, the team of FBI agents were congregated, with sombre expressions. They'd received a tip off from a frenzied man, claiming to have spotted Dean Winchester across the street. Thanks to him, they had one of the two brothers in custody now.

JJ had done a good job keeping the arrest from the press – they didn't want Sam to know Dean had been caught.

"It could set him off on a frenzied killing spree," Prentiss spoke, looking from one agent to another as they all stood beside their board, deciding what to do

Hotch nodded. "At least until we have a formulated plan, I don't think we should let Sam know Dean's been captured. There's even a chance Dean's disappearance might draw him out of hiding." Nodding in agreement, the team dispersed.

Dean looked up as the door opened and a relatively tall man with neat dark hair and a stern expression walked in. He recognised the agent from his arrest. He was wearing a dark grey suit and was staring at Dean with serious brown eyes. His brow was furrowed and as he closed the door and moved towards the chair, Dean began to get the impression this serious expression was one he was used to wearing.

"Dean Winchester." Hotch said plainly as he sat down opposite Dean and placed the file on the table.

He stared for some time, observing Dean; taking in every detail he could see. He was different to what Hotch had expected; less nonchalant and charming. He had the unmistakable face of Dean Winchester, which matched the pictures taken some years ago when he was arrested. But the years had not been kind to him... His features were still smooth and on the whole he was very handsome. But something had clearly changed since his last encounter with the police. He looked... _tired_; weary, as though he'd seen too many days.

He looked up at Hotch with tired eyes and asked. "And you are?"

"I'm Aaron Hotchner with the Behavioural Analysis Unit in Quantico. We've been investigating your case."

"So you're here to analyse me." Dean replied coolly, "A shrink?."

"No, I'm an FBI agent, Dean." He replied, then after a pause, added, "It was a very impressive feat, by the way – dying so many times. You had everyone fooled until you were caught on camera a few days ago."

Dean laughed for a moment, but there was something there, something Hotch hadn't expected. It was a sort of mirthless laugh; cold and humourless.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You have _no_ idea." he mumbled.

After several moments of silence, Hotch spoke again, tilting his head as he looked at Dean. "Where is Michelle Hobbs?"

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Who?"

Hotch carefully placed a picture of a young woman in front of him – the same picture that had been the feature of the newspaper Sam found online. "She disappeared last night; never made it home from school. Is she still alive?"

"Probably not." Dean sat up a little, then added, "I don't know. I've never seen her. Well, before this morning's paper that is."

The agent studied him for a moment, then spoke. "You and Sam have been ravishing this town for days. And last night you took Michelle Hobbs."

"No," Dean replied, "I didn't. But I can see why you'd think that."

Hotch narrowed his eyes. Silence fell between them once more and he continued to study Dean. Every response Dean gave, Hotch took a second to mull over in his mind and analyse, reassessing his presumptions about this unsub.

"Why did you kill those people?" he eventually inquired.

"I didn't kill any people." Dean replied simply.

"Dean, you were caught on camera. We know you did it, and you're going away for a very long time. I just want to know why." he said, opening the case file and placing several crime scene photos of mangled bodies in the woods onto the table, "_Those _people," he added, "You killed them."

Dean leaned over and looked at the photos and suddenly another expression came over his face that Hotch hadn't expected – sorrow.

He sighed heavily. "Yeah, I suppose I did kill them." he mumbled, then quickly added, "I didn't want to, but sometimes you don't really have a choice. We don't usually stick around to clean up the mess. It's a messy job." he added, sitting back in his chair.

"Dean, where's Sam?" Hotch asked again, after another short moment of silence fell in the interrogation room.

Dean chucked to himself again. "Yeah, you can keep me in here all you want. Talk me to death. Hell, torture me if you want, I've got all day – I'm not giving that up. _Ever_."

"You care about him a lot, don't you?"

Dean didn't reply. He sat, poker faced, now staring at Hotch with distaste.

"I can threaten you with anything, but nothing will make any kind of impact on you except your brother." when Dean said nothing again, Aaron continued. Tilting his head, he asked, "You looked after him, didn't you? You protected him all your life – from bullies at school, from your difficult social situation, from your abusive father -"

"Woah, now hang on a minute." Dean interjected, but Hotch continued, latching onto Dean's response.

"It must have been horrific. It's no wonder you turned out like you did. You lost your mother at 4 and your father went off the rails. The only person you had left in your life that gave you any sanity was your little brother, barely a year old. You were moved around the country week in and week out; you lacked any kind of stability. You never even had a home and would sometimes turn up to school – on the rare occasion you attended one – with bruises and cuts all over you."

"Those were from fights." Dean replied quickly, raising his voice.

"With your father?" Hotch asked.

"No, with monsters." Dean replied haughtily. Then, sitting up in his chair and pulling on his handcuffs, he continued, "Look... my dad may not have been father of the year, but he never hit us. _Ever_. Okay? He sure did a number on our heads, but everything he ever did, _everything_, he did for us. And he'd _never_ lay a finger on us!" he hissed.

"Just because he never hit you, that doesn't mean it's wasn't abuse. I know what your father did had a lasting effect on you and your brother. I can't imagine the damage it did – having a deranged father leaving you alone for weeks at a time when you were just a child, going on killing sprees while he left you in charge of your brother." Hotch replied, fully aware of the effect he was having on Dean, "I understand why you care for him so much, but we've got you and you're not going anywhere – Sam's alone now. And the only way you're going to see him again is if you tell me where I can find him so we can bring him in safely."

Dean nodded slowly. "You know what? You're right. Lock me up if you want – tell me I'm crazy. But I've been looking after Sam since before I could even look after myself. He's my responsibility. Always has been. You lay a finger on him and all hell's coming your way. I would die for him in a _second_, so if you think I'm gonna give him up or bring him in, you need to rethink your analysis of me, asshole. Because fuck you, that's what."

"Sam's all he's got left." Prentiss said from behind the double mirror in the other room, turning to Morgan. "Hotch is right – he doesn't care about anything else. Not even a life in prison."

"He's not gonna give him up; not for anything." Morgan sighed as he continued to gaze through the glass at the man sitting up in the chair, staring down Hotch. "Looks like maybe those books were right."

Hotch asked another question. "You said you didn't want to kill these people. If you didn't want to, why did you?"

There was silence for a moment then Dean looked him dead in the eye and said, "They were possessed by demons."

"Demons?" Hotch repeated, without missing a beat.

"Demons." Dean echoed, "If it possesses someone you can kill it. Most of the time that means killing the victim too. I don't like it. I don't do it because I enjoy it. I do it because I have to."

"You've been killing demons for a long time?" Hotch asked, again seemingly unphased by Dean's revelation.

Dean smiled. "Eh, since I was about, I dunno, twelve." He replied quickly, still staring the agent in the eye.

"And monsters?"

"Yup."

"Ghosts?"

"Mm-hm."

"Gauls?"

"Yeah... one pretended to be my brother once. Not Sam, my other brother." He added. "Only he's in hell now."

Hotch stared at him in silence for a moment, his brain ticking away as he tried to work him out. "Adam." he replied, "I know."

Dean looked up at him confused for a second.

"We found Carver Edlund's books. You may have known him as Chuck Shirley. His stories have some very interesting insights into your life, Dean."

Dean sat, gaping slightly for a second, then his eyes hit the ceiling. "Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me..." he muttered as he threw his head down onto his folded arms.

Both the agent in the room and three on the other side of the mirror puzzled over his reaction in the brief quiet that followed.

"Well this was fun. But it's getting old." Dean suddenly perked up, "Can I have my phone call now?"

Eventually, the team decided that they might have something to gain from this call, especially since he was likely to try and reach Sam. So, ready to trace whatever call he made, they all stood behind the screen, watching through the glass as Dean spoke into the receiver. Hotch eyed him carefully from the other side of the room, listening to a one-sided conversation.

"Come on... pick up. Pick up you-" Dean's mumbling suddenly stopped as he heard Sam's voice-mail message begin. He sighed heavily, then, after waiting for the beep, he spoke. "Hey... listen, I'm okay. But er... I'm a little tied up at the moment. I'm in the police station. And yeah, I know what you said, so there's no need to get snarky! I don't have long so I'll have to be quick. I've been thinking about Cas: you were right, he's not an angel anymore! But what if Abaddon needs the blood of a _fallen_ angel? I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you to figure out what's going on. Maybe call in some help. Charlie's not too far I think." there was another pause, then he added, "And Sam? Please hurry. I don't know how long Cas can hold out. I'm sorry, man. You were right. But – don't come for me until this is over. We gotta fix this first." Dean glanced up at Hotch, who was still staring at him with a careful, calculating look. Then he hung up.

On the other side of the glass, Reid and Emily exchanged puzzled glances. As her eyebrows furrowed in confusion, Prentiss spoke.

"He talks about all of this angel and demon stuff with so much conviction it kinda makes me want to believe it!" she chimed, "This isn't his reasoning, he actually believes in all this."

"If he really believes he's hunting monsters and ghosts, how are we ever going to convince him to tell us what happened?" Morgan asked, sighing heavily.

"No, but this doesn't make any sense." Reid interjected, turning to face the other two. "If he's really having this delusion, he must be suffering from some kind of psychotic disorder. But that... that doesn't fit. Schizophrenic's are disordered, they're irrational. You can't have someone this immersed in their own delusional fantasies and be intelligent, organised killers at the same time! It's impossible!"

Silence fell for a moment between the three profilers. Eventually, after long and heavy glances, Morgan turned and looked through the glass at their unsub. He sighed, shaking his head as he spoke. "What the hell is going on?"

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**A/N → thank you so very much for reading this far, again – I'm so glad you all like this story so much. Please leave a review to let me know what you thought of it.**

**I'd also like to extend a special thanks to LeeMarieJack for reading this chapter and offering advice and constructive criticism on my writings!**

**I'm sorry again that it took so long to put up this chapter. I hope you thought it was worth the wait... :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**So the next chapter is up... quite heavily focusses on Sam. I'm glad you're all enjoying it so much! **_**IMPORTANT**_** A/N at the bottom.**

**Words: ****3200**

**Warnings: A little language and a torture scene.**

CHAPTER 5

In the MOL library, Sam paced impatiently. He muttered under his breath as he scanned the pages of an ancient book resting in his hands. A particular line of text caught his eye, and he looked up and muttered, "Holy shit..."

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and fumbled with the book. He threw it down, perhaps a little too hard, onto the table and marched over to the nearest shelf. He plucked another old, dusty book off the shelf, sat down and threw his latest acquisition open. Flipping through the pages of both books, he frantically searched, his eyes flickering back and forth between the pages. He jotted a few notes down, then shoved the books away and leaned back in the chair. Sam sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes.

Taking out his phone, he flicked through the contacts, too focused to notice the little grey answer message symbol flashing at the top of the screen. He soon came to Dean's number, listed under 'Jerk' and pushed call.

In the police station, a phone inside a small plastic evidence bag began vibrating as it blasted out 'Back in Black'. The desk clerk burst into the conference room, holding it up for all the agents to see. "The phone!" he squealed, "The contact ID says 'Sammy'!"

Sam grew frustrated as the ringing continued for some time. Eventually, a small 'click' on the other end told him Dean had _finally_ picked up. "Dean! Man, I need your help, where are you?"

"Sam?"

The voice that answered was a man's, but older and more sombre than Dean's. Sam's brow furrowed as his heart dropped. "Who is this?" he asked.

"My name is Aaron Hotchner, I'm with the FBI."

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes. Dean had got caught. He held back an internal _I-told-you-so_ as he took the phone away from his ear and closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath.

He exhaled, then raised the phone to his ear and sarcastically replied, "And I'm Sam, nice to meet you. But I'm sure you already know that by now. I want to talk to my brother."

"I don't know if I can do that." Hotch spoke slowly as everyone around him rushed to get a trace working. "You can speak to him if you come in."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, no chance. Sorry." and hung up.

He knew the Bunker would protect his signal from being traced for a radius of a few miles, but the less they knew about where he was, the better. Now it was going to be extremely hard to get out of here to get what he needed. It wasn't as though he could walk right up to the County Clerk's Office and ask for their records.

He needed a plan. And the only person he could think of right that could give him what he needed was that last person he should go to...

Garcia reached her hotel room late that night. She was tired and it had been a long day. There'd been little for her to do, but it had been exhausting just _hearing_ them arrest and interrogate Dean. All she wanted was to snuggle up to some fluffy pillows with a cup of tea and a friendly-sized chocolate bar. Maybe then she could pretend none of this was happening.

She opened the door to her room, kicked it closed and threw her purse and keys onto the sofa. She took off her coat and reached over to the hook on the wall as she began humming quietly to herself. She hadn't even reached her bed before he spoke.

"Penelope?"

She jumped out of her skin and spun round. Her eyes widened and her mouth dropped open as she saw him standing just a few feet away from her – just as tall as he had been in college, but seemingly grown several chest sizes. He was looming over her, breathing slowly, calmly, and there was a gun resting a little too comfortably in his right hand.

Struggling for the words that seemed to be caught in her throat, Garcia made a few stuttering sounds, then a small squeaking noise as tears prickled at her eyes.

"Woah, Penny. It's okay! I'm not here to hurt you, I swear." he assured her, raising his hands, then slowly putting his gun down on the table. "I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to scare you."

"Sam!" she exclaimed, unable to believe her eyes. It was all she could manage to get out, and though she wanted to scream, she was too terrified to even move. She blinked furiously as she looked up at him, and tried to stop shaking.

"Look, Penelope..." he began, but he wasn't even sure what he wanted to say. He looked sad, lonely; as though all the optimism he'd possessed at Stanford had faded away. "I know that you think I'm some kind of crazy killer and you're investigating me and my brother, but... Penny, I need your help."

"Help?" she squeaked, shaking her head vigorously. "Sam! I work for the FBI..."

Sam smiled softly. "I know... go figure!" he laughed. "I'm happy for you. You've done a lot with your life Penny. Really. But I'm not what you think I am."

"You know, Sam, I saw the tape. The security tape from the bank. You know, I thought... I thought we used to know each other, I thought, maybe, there'd been some mistake. I didn't want to believe it, so I made myself watch it... but you killed all those people!" she blurted, stumbling over her words as she raced through her explanation.

Sam's brow furrowed as she spoke. When she finished, he sighed heavily. Then he asked, "Is anyone with you?"

She shook her head. Suddenly she felt very small. He was sad to see her like this – all the life had drained from her face and even the bright colours she adorned herself with seemed to have lost their glow.

A moment of silence fell, and she plucked up the courage to ask, "Sam... why are you here? Why did you come to me?"

"Because we were friends." he said simply. He sighed as he moved toward the bed and sat down. "I need your help. I need some files. And I thought – who better than Penelope; that girl who hacked the whole Stanford system, right?"

For a brief moment, a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Then suddenly it faded as she remembered herself and she whispered, "Sam... I _can't_."

"I know I'm asking a lot, believe me, I do. But I just want some files. That's all I'm asking! You can tell your friends I was here if you want, you can tell them everything – I don't care. I promise you I will never come to you again. Just... pull some files for me. Please?"

"And if I don't...?" She wasn't really sure why she'd asked. It was a stupid question and she was fairly certain she didn't want to know the answer. But it had left her mouth before she had time to think about it.

Sam paused, "I can't make you do anything Penny. I wouldn't want to. But please, if what we were means anything to you, believe me – this is really important!"

"So... you're _not _going to kill me?" she asked.

Sam laughed. Then a much sadder, darker expression came over his face and suddenly he looked so much older. "I'm sorry you got mixed up in all this, Penelope. I'm sorry you had to see me like this; to believe that I kill people. It sucks and I'm sorry. But I'm not a serial killer! You knew me – do you really think I could do that?"

"I don't want to!" she sighed. Not really sure what she was doing, and still shaking, she sat on the edge of the bed, her gaze fixed on Sam. "But people change. Man, that childhood must have done a number on your head more than I ever realised. You were so sweet when we met. You helped me! How could you end up caught in something like this?"

"It's... _complicated_. And I wish I could explain it to you Penny, I really do. If I could, I would tell you everything, I'd make this all go away. But you gotta believe me. There is something... _evil_ out there, and if we don't stop it, something really bad is gonna happen. I just need a few files. I know you have access."

Looking into her eyes pleadingly, Sam sighed.

After some time, she eventually spoke. "Okay, Sam. I will help you; I'll give you the files. But you have to turn yourself in."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again. "You know... everyone keeps asking me to do that." he said, smiling a little as he shook his head, "I don't think it's such a good idea."

"If you want those files, Sam..." she said, holding her breath as she tried to hold onto the courage she'd plucked up long enough to stand her ground. Reaching out, then thinking better of it, Garcia wrung her trembling hands together, then she added, "You're hurting people, Sam. I know you think you're killing monsters, but you're not! You killed 7 people in the woods, men and women! And that girl, Michelle, who went missing... I don't want you to hurt anyone else. Dean's already been caught." she reasoned.

Sam smiled softly. He was agitated; she got the impression he was in a hurry. But he was calm and except the gun, just as sweet as he'd been when she knew him. Although, is stood to reason now that she probably never knew him, not like she thought she had.

Sam mulled it over for a moment – he needed to get Dean out, and as far as he could see it, this was the only way to get the comprehensive information he needed. He couldn't miss anything. And if he was right – this was way too big for him alone. He couldn't do this without Dean. By getting in he could have everything he needed... it was just getting out that was the problem.

"Okay." he said.

"What?" she perked up, now surprised more than scared.

"Alright. I'll come in tomorrow morning. But when I get there, I want to see those files. Deal? ...Penelope?"

"Uh, yeah! Yes, yes, of course." she said, then added, "What do you need?"

"I need all the files on every disturbance or disappearance in the whole county for the past month. Anything out of the ordinary. And I'll need all the reports on all the deaths. Not just murders; natural causes, diseases, everything. I also need the coroner's report on the cauldron in the woods." he said hurriedly.

"Okay..." she had time to mumble one word before he stood up and picked up his gun from the coffee table. Almost before she could take a breath, he was gone.

When the 7:00am alarm on went off on his phone, Sam grunted. He fumbled with the device for a moment, squinting at it, before sitting up. He'd fallen asleep atthe table in the library, surrounded by a dozen open books. Rubbing his face for a moment, he blinked several times, looked down at the books and sighed. He'd been up all night trying to find the right spell to get Dean out, and even after several hours he'd just turned up a blank. Everything that _might _work either involved something he wasn't willing to do, or didn't have the expertise to carry out. At somewhere around 3:00am he'd finally come across one that would work. Now all he had to do was gather the ingredients.

As Sam stumbled, still half asleep, into the MOL store room; he thanked his lucky stars for the Bunker**. **Previously, these kind of ingredients could have taken them days, even weeks, to find. He was done in fifteen minutes; everything neatly tied up in two conveniently small hex-bags.

He studied the text on the pages of a tiny, hand-written spellbook in front of him for several minutes. Then he copied the instructions onto a small piece of paper and tied it to one of the hex-bags. Once he was sure everything was done, he went to his room and got changed. He was ready. This could, and probably would go horribly wrong, but to hell with it...

_Here's to saving the world... again. _he thought as he downed a glass of water and left the Bunker, carefully closing the outer door behind him.

Ahalf an hour later, the agents in the room exchanged glances as Dean's phone went off again. It was Sam.

"Sam?" Hotch answered the phone, which was on speaker for everyone to hear.

"It's Hotchner, right?" the reply came.

"Yes. What can I do for you, Sam?"

"I want to turn myself in."

A silence fell over the room. Emily and JJ exchanged puzzled glances; Morgan frowned. Garcia was standing in the doorway, hanging on every word, as though waiting for something.

"I'm glad you're willing to do that." Hotch replied.

Before he could say anything else, Sam added, "I have some conditions. First, I need to see Dean. And I want access to all the files you have on recent deaths and disappearances, and the toxicology report on that cauldron you found in the woods."

Hotch calmly replied, "I don't know if we have all of those files. They may take some time to collect." he glanced up at the team members who were trying to trace the call. He received uniformly negative responses.

"Penelope should have them all ready." Sam answered without missing a beat.

Shocked and confused, everyone turned to look at Garcia, who seemed to shrink before their eyes as she turned away.

Frowning, Hotch replied, "Where are you, Sam?"

"Do you agree to my terms?" he asked sternly, "I wanna see those files."

"Yes. We'll get them for you, and you can see Dean. Tell us where you are." Hotch continued.

"I'm outside."

The moment the words came through the speaker, everyone's attention turned to the station's entrance, where, to their disbelief, Sam Winchester was standing with a phone to his ear. "I want to see Dean." he reiterated.

Hotch nodded, then Sam hung up, replaced the phone in his jacket pocket and began walking into the station calmly, with his hands on his head.

Even though he was surrounded by dozens of officers, he remained cool and collected. He made it halfway across the open-plan office before anyone moved – all too shocked and scared to approach him. It was eventually Morgan that arrested him. Cautious and suspicious, but not overly rough, he handcuffed Sam, reciting his rights as he lead him towards the cells.

As they headed towards the back, where the conference room was, Sam smiled reassuringly at Garcia. Then he was ledaway through a large door to a different part of the station and out of sight.

The strangled cry of pain was lost to the silence that followed in the large wooden room. As the quiet settled over them, broken only by Castiel's deep, grunting breaths, Abaddon taunted, "See... no one around to hear you, so scream all you want, sissy. We've got all night!"

She removed the knife from his abdomen as she held him crudely over a large, cold bowl.

Bound and gagged, Castiel was covered in cuts and bruises. The physical manifestation of pain was far worsened by the knowledge that once, not so long ago, he could have smited her with his hand. Now he could do nothing but cry out in pain as she taunted him. She had the upper hand. She would always have the upper hand; everyone would. He was human now and forthe many enemies he'd accumulated over the years – a sitting duck.

Cas spat out a little blood, coughed, then gasped again as she continued to hold him over the bowl, which was slowly filling with blood. He was able to watch his now so mundane life drain away; one crimson drop at a time.

"You know, Castiel..." Abaddon beamed, leaning in until she was so close he could feel her breath next to his ear. "I've never been to Heaven. I mean for a gal like me – it's only up! So I'm left wondering... what's it like to _fall_ from hallowed ground; God's right hand and all that?"

When the defiant fallen angel gave no response, she made another careful incision along his ribcage, positively _gleeful _over his grunts of pain and suppressed screams.

"He cares about you, you know? The Winchester. They both do. But you and I both know – Dean's coming after you. I don't even have to do any of the work. Sooner or later he's going to walk right in here and I'll get to finish my little party trick! Well... there are a few more things to add." she mused.

Cas didn't respond, so she continued cutting. After several minutes of laboured screaming, she threw the broken angel back into the chair.

"Oh honey, you do look dreadful!" she giggled. "I know, I know – I could have just hooked you up to an IV and this would all be over. But, oh dammit this is just _so_ much more fun! And spellwork can be so hard... nothing relieves stress quite like a good torture session!"

Castiel looked up at her with a pained and bitter expression. "And what exactly is this spell?" he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Oh!" she exclaimed excitedly, "It's my finest work yet! And that's saying something, considering how much I've done! You see – I killed them so many of Crowley's minions... He was a little shit and a pain in my neck. But now that little cockroach and all his puppets are gone we can get down to the _real_ business. Except... well he had a lot of followers. And in this new world that I'm building, I need footsoldiers too!"

Making a small incision on his neck, she reached down, dipped her finger in it, then raised it to her mouth. Relishing the humiliation as though she could actually taste it, she smacked her lips. "Oh Castiel... your blood: it's gonna pave the way for a whole new world!" Then she smirked as she looked down at him. "Surely you remember Germany?"

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**A/N → Firstly, I wanted to say thank you so much to all of you for following and reading this story, and thank you so much for all the reviews.**

**But I'm afraid I have some pretty shit news... today all of the files on my memory stick were lost. All of the fanfics I was working on, the letters, the original stories, the poems, and the 50,000+ words I had for ****this**** story and all the planning... **_**gone**_**.**

**My dad is currently trying to recover some of the data, and he has found some fragments. But he has to manually put them all together, and there's no telling whether it will be a couple of poems, pieces of this and that, the whole thing, or nothing at all... I just don't know. Either way – recovering the documents for this story, if at all possible, will take a long time.**

**I'm really sorry. I am so upset, not least of all because I know you're all enjoying this story and looking forward to knowing what happens.**

**I'd also like to offer a special thank you to LeeMarieJack, for beta-reading and editing this chapter for me. She and I are hopefully going to work on putting some of this story back together...**

**It seems likely I'll end up re-writing the next chapter, after I've re-written all of my notes (or what I can remember of them). But I can make no promises at the moment. I **_**want**_** to finish this story – it's the only really long story of **_**any**_** kind that I've finished and I am so proud of it. To have it deleted and have to start again is devastating.**

**Hopefully I will be able to upload a (probably new) chapter 6 sometime in the next few weeks. However, if something happens that means I'm unable to finish the story, I will let you know, and I will upload a 'chapter' outlining what happens in the rest of the story, so that you at least get some resolution.**

**I am going to try to fix this. But I will need your patience.**

**Thank you again for reading, and I'm sorry...**


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